The hall was a welcome respite from the chill morning, especially when the men of Naia had lit it up. After all the water, Efrain enjoyed seeing the tongues of flame leap and spit. However, he’d retired to a darkened alcove, sitting at the end of a short table, attempting to divine some path forward.
What were his goals? His intentions with the children? With himself? What of the words of the River? What end would he meet and how could it be prevented? All these questions dominated his mind as he started into the glowing embers. To the other men around the hall, he cut a grim figure, with black clothes and a grief-stricken mask.
“The paladins,” he muttered aloud, “how to deal with them?”
“Carefully, if at all,” said Innie.
“You know what I meant,” he said, “how do I make them better disposed to me?”
“The male is a zealous idiot, the woman is a zealous pragmatist. Who, lest you forget, told you to stay away from them.”
“Not much of a square one to start one, yes, I get it. Still, I’ll take pragmatist over idiot. They tend to be more predictable.”
“Agreed,” Innie said, “Efrain, if you’re really going to do this, and for posterity, I think this is a terrible idea, don’t try to create a problem. Wait for one to present itself. Every time you make it too complicated and every time it spirals out of control.”
“So I’m just supposed to wait until the whims of fate drops opportunity into my lap?”
“Yes.”
He looked into her amber eyes.
“Oh stop it. They’re a company of knights in a far land. They’ll run into trouble sooner or later. Just sit back, and be patient.”
Efrain could’ve said several things about his virtues in patience, when the two of them spied Aya slowly and surreptitiously making her way towards them.
“You were just about to argue with me, weren’t you?” said Innie, looking back with a painfully smug smile.
“No,” Efrain said, looking at the young girl, who was trying and failing to look uninterested in him. Still, it was an opportunity, so long as they were quick, not much more than exchange of greetings, to avoid the rousing of the paladins.
Her eyes were earnest as she peered into his gloomy corner.
“I need your help,” she said.
Innie’s expression could’ve been carved in stone with a monogrammed ‘I told you so.’
“Oh?” said Efrain, trying to keep his voice even “I believed you were forbidden from speaking to me. What is your need?”
“I need to heal Lillian.”
Innie obviously couldn’t help it as she giggled. Efrain was less amused, and doubted that it would be less ‘complicated’ as Innie had desired.
“Well, that is certainly a request. What makes you think she would accept my help if I did offer it?”
“I didn’t say you needed to do it. You know healing don’t you?” she whispered, glancing back at the paladins.
“Yes,” Efrain said slowly, “but, what would you suggest?”
“You teach me what you know.”
Now it was Efrain’s turn to laugh. Aya was too busy flitting between him and the paladins to look confused or embarrassed.
“Oh Aya,” Efrain said, “I don’t know much, but even that’s enough to fill weeks of lectures, if you had the mind to hear them. No, I don’t think that would work, but I do admire your eagerness.”
While her expression grew more downcast, Efrain suspected she knew the answer already.
“What is she to you?” he almost asked, and instead, seeing her desire to help was genuine, regardless of the origin, he quickly whispered: “Find Clarelell, my female companion. She knows healing better than me. You’ll have to convince Lillian to accept, however. There’s your hard part.”
She nodded and ducked away, weaving between some of the knights as she circled back to the paladins. It was endearing, in the way students whispering and thinking the teacher didn’t notice was. Efrain had already seen the paladin’s glances flash towards them more than once.
“Trouble or opportunity?” He sighed as he settled back into the shadows.
“The two of them go hand in hand,” Innie snorted, “All the same, ignoring the orders of the paladins might lean towards the former.”
Efrain hmmed, wondering if there was perhaps a inroad to be found in Claralelle. She might be a mage in her own right, but still, Lillian might be one to take aid from someone a little less… mysterious. Or so he hoped.
Claralelle had set up a little station, surrounded by benches upon which an array of tools, bowls and clothes were set up. Merrily she worked away upon the soldiery, apparently having got permission from one source or another.
Efrain was inclined to watch if for no other reason than a craftsman recognizing another at their craft. She put some in linen slings, stitched wounds, extracted wooden slivers, relocated joints with a nigh casual ease.
Efrain slowly moved closer and closer, watching as the knights left the better. An inroad indeed - maybe the paladins would be eventually drawn to a promise of relief from injury. Now came the man with the badly swollen hand, which had darkened in the meantime. Claralell’s smile faltered for the first time, and she took him behind a raised sheet.
Efrain came in behind, earning a smothered grunt from the man. He supposed he must seem an eerie figure, but soon the man was distracted by Claralelle’s prodding and pushing. The smell was enough to tell Efrain that at least some of the fingers would need to be removed.
“It’s no good,” she said, pouting.
The man was grief stricken, thinking that the worst had come, and he might have to lose his whole hand.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, “but I hoped I could save the whole fingers. They’ve begun to die. I’ll have to cut off at the knuckle.”
The man nodded solemnly, and held out his hand. Claralelle laughed.
“It’ll take a little more than that,” she said, as she began to lay out tools of shining steel and silver on clothes, “get two strong men. Efrain, could you help me?”
Efrain perked up at the mention of his name, wondering just what she could be helped with. Mostly it turned out, the breaking up and the mixture of various medicinal powders into solutions of oil and water. It was a pleasing break from the constant travel to do such technically minded work.
It was only five to ten minutes when they returned to find the man joined by two others, standing quietly behind him.
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“Right then,” Claralelle said, less cheerful and of sharper focus.
She sat down, brought a candle or two close, slapped her head, and turned to Efrain. He didn’t need much instruction, and conjured a sharp white light which brought the injuries into sharp relief.
“I’ll need the madam as well,” she said.
“Who?” Efrain said.
“The cat. Who else?”
Efrain had to stifle a laugh as he called her to the area. She came, despite a feigned disinterest in the affair.
“We can begin. You two, hold his shoulders, and both his arms.”
The pair did, one taking his right hand, the other holding down his arm flat on a cloth.
Claralelle rubbed two separate mixtures into the swollen area, and raised a scalpel as the man bit down into a leather cutlet. It seemed to Efrain that a change came over her, she became hard and sharp in the light, eyes glinting with a practised focus. Her fingers moved, sure, strong, and fast as she began to part the tissues in the man’s fingers.
It was over fast, faster than Efrain would’ve believed. The man was left, panting and sweating, and down two fingers. Only once had Claralelle asked for help, and that was for Innie to heat the tip of the blade to glowing. That was the most painful part of the procedure, her pressing the tip to an exposed nerve to ensure it wouldn’t grow back.
Finally the man was ordered to bed with clean bandages around his fresh stumps. He was lucky, or so Clara said, he’d only needed to lose the first knuckle, unless it got infected. More soldiers came in as she was cleaning up the tools, and she was only too happy to soothe their various aches and pains.When at last the steady stream of soldiers seemed to die down, Efrain spoke.
“Aren’t you worried about the nurses killing you in your sleep?”
“No? Why would I?” she said, carefully cleaning one of the various implements.
“So, then, what are you going to do with these?” he said, gesturing to the bowl that was full of the ‘castoffs’ of the soldiery.
“There might be enough in there to reanimate a little mouse?” she said.
Efrain chuckled, which quickly died when he realised that she might not have been joking.
“There must be some dogs or pigs around her who could use some extra meal,” she said, getting up and taking the bowl into her hands.
Not even thinking of stopping her, Efrain let her vanish through a side door into the dreary morning. He was left alone in the small medical ‘room’, separated from the light and sound of the group by only a thin curtain. Before he could lapse into any serious thought, however, Innie perked up her ears as it shifted.
In came Lillian, face pale and drawn, with not a small amount of shame.
“Where’s the one that said she… he… it?”
“She,” Efrain said, “I’m surprised you find it difficult. She is emptying out a bucket of refuse. I doubt she’ll be long.”
Lillian nodded sullenly and sat down on the stool, placing her considerably muscled arm down on the table with effort. As the minutes passed without a sign of the healer, her face grew increasingly tense. Fingers began to drum on her leg, and finally, she broke the silence.
“So. She’s one of yours?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your student,” she said.
“Not at all,” Efrain snorted, “I haven’t had a student in a long time, and mine would not be half as inattentive.”
Innie let out a sardonic giggle at the latter remark. Lillian’s expression moved between shock, horror, and anger at the sound. Efrain figured he’d best get ahead of this one.
“Yes,” he said, “the cat, it talks.”
“I see,” she said, her fingers clenching and unclenching, possibly searching for a sword hilt.
“I doubt that. Tell me, could you take a guess at her nature?” Efrain poked.
Before Lillian could offer some no doubt exceptionally shallow observation, Innie butted in.
“It’s rude to have a conversation in front of someone else, you know.”
She hopped up on the table to stare at the pair of them.
“Tell your familiar that I-”
“Young lady,” Innie said, “I will have you know that I’m nothing as base as a simple familiar.”
“We are companions, not master and subject,” Efrain supplied.
“And is that any way to speak to someone many times your age?”
Lilliana faltered for a moment. Fortunately for her, Claralele chose to return at that moment. She smiled at the paladin as she set the empty bowl down.
“You came!” she said, the bubbly excitement quickly being shut down by a withering look.
“Just do whatever magic you have to do, witch,” she growled, gesturing to her arm.
“What magic?” she said, cocking her head, “your shoulder is just dislocated. We just have to bring it out and back in again. Efrain, brace her.”
Lillian tensed at his touch, locking eyes with his empty sockets.
“You can stab me later, with your fixed arm,” he said, “either you can accept our help, or get out.”
There was much grumbling but finally she relented. Easier than I thought, Efrain said, as he pressed against her. She was not a particularly large woman, but she was solid, muscles dense underneath her tunic. Claralelle took her hand and gently but firmly rotated her arm out. With a quiet but still audible pop, the shoulder slid in and the tension flowed out of Lillian’s face.
She began to swing her arm to test it presumably, earning her a whack from Claralelle.
“What are you doing?” she said, “the tissue might still be damaged. Move it as little as possible.”
She slung the arm in linen and told Lillian to go to bed and sleep it off. Seemingly desperate to take any excuse to get out of there, the paladin took her leave. After she had managed to clean up and carefully stow away her tools Claralelle turned to Efrain.
“That should be all of them,” she said.
“You were taking stock of injuries?” Efrain said.
“As soon as we had all gathered together in the square. You didn’t?” she said.
Whatever training she’d had was driven in, and driven in deep. Efrain sat back and peeked around the edge of the curtain. For the moment it seemed that none were attempting to approach the makeshift medic station. The paladins sat with their charges, eating around one of the main fire pits.
“Have you not noticed yet?” she said, nodding toward the crowds.
“What, about them?”
“Yes, and no. Their captain’s not among them. And,” she said, voice curiously flat and lifeless, “none of the villagers have come to meet us.”
There was something about the lack of enthusiasm or unshakable upbeatness that alarmed Efrain, made even more so by the complete inexpression of her voice. It was enough to drive him to his feet, adjust his coat, more out of habit than necessity, and begin to walk towards the door.
He emerged out into the much brightened morning, but still, there was a dullness to the light. He looked about for any cloud that might’ve veiled the sun, and yet could find nothing to explain the effect. The world seemed just a bit greyer, a bit less lively, and it was still so cold. Not the chill cold of the northern wind, but a semi-wet, smothering cold, like an soaked blanket slowly settling onto him.
Efrain found it hard to think, but through that cold he reached out, and the stench of magic was lain, thin upon the breeze. Before Efrain could do anything to counteract whatever malign intent was in the air, a figure emerged from the grey light.
It was a villager, dressed in shabby clothes, trudging along as he dragged a bucket upon the ground. As he passed, he glanced, almost as if with visible effort, up at Efrain, before falling back into the exhausted rhythm. One two, one two, one two.
Efrain had held himself perfectly still, assuming an attack from some horror from the fog. It took himself a moment to detach himself from the fear to realise that the man had only shown the barest bit of attention. Not starring, not disbelief or fear, just a dulled, passive recognition soon forgotten.
He walked the cobbles into the rows of the stone houses. What few people where outside performed their tasks slowly and with great effort. Many of them bent over their brooms and shovels, eyes downcast and sunken. Not a word or remark was offered as he passed by, not even staring or an exchange of looks.
This lethargy alarmed him, especially combined with the presence from the mists that laid on the ground of the village. He was beginning to loathe the sight of it, but it was still thin and low. He paused, probably near the centre of the village, if he was any judge of geography, and looked down the hill he had come.
The mist lay about the town in swirling banks, wandering between the various alleys and buildings. But as the central road stretched out into the distance, it rose and thickened into a wall of white, the trees only thin shadows. Efrain almost swore as he looked out into the sightless world beyond the village’s borders.
That same coldness was out there, the same malevolence, making him certain that the deadly shadow lurked beyond. And yet, where the baleful fog had poured forth with dreadful purpose before, it held steady, barely moving at all. Efrain had a suspicion that if anyone passed into the mists, they would never come back out.
“So,” he spoke aloud, “they’re no simple beasts.”
The creatures that had pursued the troop were hanging back - why, he couldn’t say. Perhaps it was that they took a sadistic pleasure in cornering prey. Perhaps the congregation of people made them hesitant to approach. Perhaps, in their own way, they were exhausted just like the soldiers were.
In any case, Efrain did not trust it to take long before trouble arose. His boots slapped the cobbles as he hurried back towards the public house they had taken residence in. He flung open the door, to the surprise and annoyance of many of the occupants. He pawed his way over to one of the captains that had assembled under Naia.
“Where is he? Your commander?” he said.
The man eyed him carefully, then shrugged.
“Where is he?” Efrain repeated, “We need to discuss something. Urgently.”
“He went off with the right hand,” said the man, whose blunt and ugly features contorted at being questioned.
After a few more questions and a fairly subtle threat or two, Efrain had gathered that Naia had not been seen since he went off with Damafelce.
“So, who’s in charge while he’s gone?” he asked.
“Well,” said the man, scratching his chin, “I’m the youngest of the three captains, so it would be Urlind. Well, I suppose the paladins would-”
“Good. Point me to this ‘Urlind’.”
The man, while annoyed, indicated a sharp eyed veteran of perhaps thirty, with a terrific scar down his left cheek.
“You’re Urlind?”
“That I am, my lord,” he said, “how may I be of service?”
Efrain quickly explained the situation outside the public house. Urlind tapped the hilt of his sword.
“You’re sure it's those twice-cursed things again?”
“Almost certain. Unless there are more things that can cause that chill. Which is not a possibility I want to consider now.”
“Quite right,” said Urlind, who barked a series of commands. A small company of the least injured were quickly assembled, and told to take watch.
“If they should move, we’ll know about it,” he said, “Until then, we’d best make preparations to move, and move fast.”
The soldiers and aides left behind began doing just that, while Efrain took him by the shoulder.
“No one’s seen Naia, or Damafelce since we left them in the square.”
Ulrind tapped his sword, the sound growing sharper and more frequent in response to this fact.
“At normal times, wouldn't be a problem,” he said, “now…”
“I’m going back out to survey the fog,” he said, “see if there’s no break in it.”
The man nodded and told Efrain to keep an eye out for the waylaid pair, then turned to see to his preparations.
Efrain emerged back out onto the street, Claralelle and Innie standing in the centre, gazing out into the edges.
“I don’t suppose you have any insight to add to this?” he said.
“Nope!” said Claralelle, as cheerful as ever. Innie offered her insight by way of a scoff at his sarcasm.
“If you’re examining the fog, that’d be a better place!” she said, gesturing to the north, up the hill.
There was a jut of land that extended shear and sharp, past the rows of houses and winding road. A long line of black stone, a wall of some kind, Efrain thought, what looked like crumbling ruins beyond. Then, at the tip of the spur, a large stone building, its tall walls and steep roofs suggesting a church or castle.
“Well, then,” Efrain said, glancing back at the ring of fog, “we’d best go have a look.”